Something More to Gain
by The Sea Sparrow
Summary: If a single thread of the web remains, then a spider may claim it and rebuild. Post-Reichenbach. John/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: I am actually quite scared, as this is my first Sherlock fanfic. This chapter is a bit short, but I felt the length was right. The next few chapters will be longer. Please, read and review, and I shall update more frequently. Come talk to me on Tumblr (I am stephanieloren on there)!

**Warning**: This story is rated "M" for language and eventual smut.

**Disclaimer:** All characters except my own are property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Bless him.

The muse for this chapter (as well as the rest of the story) is the song "Into Dust" by Mazzy Star. On with the show!

* * *

><p>The cold mist hung thick in the air, stinging his lungs with every breath he took. It seemed to suffocate him. It was dark and silent. The dreadful weather was always accompanied by empty streets. The silence could be considered deafening. Most people would compare a walk during that time of night, during that sort of weather, with the experience of drowning.<p>

He was already drowing.

In actuality, he felt dead. He was only reminded of his existance when someone spoke to him, and even then, their voices seemed muffled. When someone touched him, either by accident or in an attempt to console him, it felt as if he was never touched in the first place. He felt numb. He felt nothing.

John Watson continued to walk down the quiet street, only the occasional car breaking the calm. Walking. Walking.

Falling.

_Just as Sherlock... _

His thoughts began. He had to physically stop on the sidewalk, pleading with his mind not to return to that dark corner where he pushed all of his raw emotions and unpleasant memories. He felt his eyes begin to dampen, and he took a quick inhale of air. Drowning.

It had been six months since...well, since.

He gripped his cane tighter, clinching his other fist in an attempt to supress the growing ache in his chest. He looked up from the sidewalk and into the glass of a restaurant. He stared at his reflection. Pale. Darkened circles around his eyes, which appeared dull and faded. Such a contrast...

To _his_ eyes.

Memories crashed into John's mind. Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes, always searching and analyzing, full of intelligence. There were moments when John caught tenderness within them. While Sherlock failed to find the words to express his feelings, his eyes did not.

John stared into the restaurant, the familiar setting causing the ache in his chest to rise even more. Memories of that evening, sitting at Angelo's, played through his mind.

_"What do people have in their real lives?"_

_ "Friends. People they like, people they don't like, boyfriends, girlfriends..."_

John cut the memory off. As he walked away from the window, his cheeks damp with escaped tears and his eyes downcast, he could feel eyes watching him from across the street. He pushed the feeling aside. It didn't matter if they watched him or not. He had nothing for them. For anyone.

The numbness swallowed him whole again as he pushed his emotions into that dark corner of his mind. He didn't feel the rain as it slowly began to pour.

...

John stopped at the door, his hand hovering over its surface. He had not visited 221B Baker Street since the funeral.

Occasionally, he would meet Mrs. Hudson out for tea, or the dear woman would even come to visit him at his small, musty flat. They would hold small conversations that John never invested in. He couldn't. It was exhausting to even try to put on a mask to hide...

Temporary, he had told himself. The flat was just temporary. He would return to Baker Street, if only for a moment. Perhaps to collect a few of his things he had forgotten, or to help Mrs. Hudson with anything she needed, and move on. He hadn't ruled out looking through Sherlock's belongings. Mrs. Hudson had asked him to help sort through them months ago, but he couldn't return to the flat. She understood why.

The door to 221B Baker Street seemed to be shaking. No, that wasn't right. It was, in fact, staying completely still. John was shaking. His left hand shook, hovering over the door, as a war raged inside John's head. He tried to decide whether to knock or simply leave. But nothing is ever simple.

_It's just a damn door! Why can't I..._

His thought trailed off as he visualized himself knocking on the door, Sherlock answering it and rushing him inside and up the stairs...

"Lestrade has a new case, John! A triple homicide! All three victims have what seem to be bite marks at the base of their necks, indicating either vampiric cult rituals, or even fascination..."

John stopped in the doorway of the flat and simply let him talk. He knew Sherlock would explain again later, when he wrapped the case up in a dramatic monologue. John often got lost within the twists and turns of Sherlock's speech. He continued speaking, nearly dancing around the room at the thought of a possible serial killer.

He was across the room when he walked up to John, his long legs making it possible in about three strides. Sherlock placed both of his hands on John's shoulders and stared into his eyes.

His eyes. They pierced through layers of John's cloudy thoughts, always seeming to know where to find the piece of information or affirmation that Sherlock wanted. John assumed Sherlock had a map of his brain stored away inside his "hard-drive".

The closeness and warmth of Sherlock's body sent waves of comfort through John and he closed his eyes.

When John opened them again, the door to 221B Baker Street still stood closed. The cold, winter wind stung his eyes, but he knew that was not the cause of them watering. His hand, still hovering over the door, uncurled and he placed his plam upon it. Cold.

He closed his eyes again and inhaled deeply, the air still thick. His tense frame stood silently, trying to gather himself up. Fighting, but giving in. Drowning.

John let his hand slide down the door, and limped down to the sidewalk. Regret already in his heart, he glanced up at the window of their old flat. He imagined Sherlock's figure standing there, watching him with calculating and curious eyes.

If only he could look into them again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you to those who have read this so far, and to my friend who is beta-reading this. She helps me to trim down and focus on what I really want to get across. These first few chapters are a bit depressing, but don't worry! Hope is on its way. Please continue to read, and please review! It helps and encourages. :-)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock and its characters.

**Warning:** Language in this chapter

**Muse for this chapter:** "I Gave You All" - Mumford and Sons

* * *

><p>Time seemed to crawl, every passing day slower than the one before. It had been nine months <em>since<em>.

John slipped quietly through the crowded sidewalk, the faces that passed him in a blur of dull colors. He gripped his cane tightly. It had become his foundation, in a way. It often felt his firm grip, whether out of physical pain or emotional sorrow, or both.

He limped through the doors of St. Bart's Hospital, nearly relieved to have his duties in the surgery. All the hours he spent here provided a distraction from the almost constant ache in his chest. Even though time passed in the surgery, he could never disspell the stabbing feeling in his heart when he approached and left the building.

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me..."_

The pain in his chest seemed to rock his entire body as Sherlock's voice echoed in his head. He gripped the wall, waiting for the dizzying sensation to pass. It hurt to inhale. Oxygen was poison, never providing relief from drowning, and always there to remind him of his pain. He tried to shift his body to put his back against the wall.

"John?"

John turned his head to the quiet female's voice. He blinked slowly, exhaling.

"Hello, Molly."

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, stepping closer to him. "You don't look very well. Actually, you haven't looked good in months. I mean...you always look nice, but y..."

"I'm fine, Molly. Thanks," he replied, almost chuckling at her stammering. But he didn't. His throat was dry from the lack of use. He hadn't laughed since...

John stepped away from the wall. For a moment, he feared he would lose his balance, but he gripped onto his cane tightly and kept himself upright. He nodded at her, walking past her and down the overly bright hallway. As the fluorescents bathed John in light, he felt the beginnings of a small, nagging headache.

"Bloody fantastic," he mumbled to himself as he headed into surgery.

...

The fluorescent lights were becoming too much for John. Usually, he could put up with them, even though their brightness could bring about a headache within minutes. Today was different. John pondered whether it was because of the slight "episode" he'd had in the hallway that morning, or perhaps the lack of sleep from the night before, courtesy of his nightmares. No matter what the cause was, his head was pounding, and the lights were not helping.

He contemplated if he should have just gone back to his flat, but that prospect was even less inviting. He needed more distractions.

John was organizing some papers on his desk when a thought struck him. He needed some fresh air and warm sunlight. He grabbed his coffee and took a sip, the delicious warmth slightly dulling his headache. Limping out of his office and down a hallway, he pressed the "up" button for the lift.

...

He thought it would be nice. At first, it was. The headache start to disappear as he took deep breaths of fresh air. The sun peeked through the clouds for long periods of time, as it rarely did, allowing one to soak up its warmth. It was nice. But then he realized where exactly he had gone.

Hesitantly, he walked towards the ledge of the building, his body no longer enjoying the warmth of the sun. He felt numb again. He dropped his cane onto the roof, then placed his coffee on the narrow ledge. He lowered his body down onto it, sitting on it, his legs hanging off the edge.

_It was here_, he thought,_ the ledge where Sherlock..._

He inhaled quickly, the sudden rush of emotions overwhelming him. He thought visiting the ledge would bring him some sort of solace. He tried to feel Sherlock's presence here with him; tried to imagine him sitting beside John. Oh, how he missed the comfort of having Sherlock by his side. He missed his voice, his quirks, his laugh, and hell, he even missed his shouting. But one of things John missed most about Sherlock were the exchanged glances, when they seemed to connect. When the whole world seemed to fade into nothing, and it was just the two of them.

"Jesus," he whispered, running his hand down his face. He tried to inhale, his body shuddering with every attempt. His eyes watered as he gazed down at the street below.

_"I'm a fraud."_

"No," John gasped, his voice hoarse. He gripped the ledge tighter, his hands turning white. He couldn't swallow. "You weren't..."

"John," a firm, but alarmed voice called out from behind him. John closed his eyes tightly, trying to compose himself. Fighting. Drowning. "John."

He finally turned his head and glanced at the door on the rooftop. One of the security guards was standing there, Molly staring out from behind him, concern etched all over her face. Someone must have seen me come up here, and told her, John mused. There was a moment of silence.

He contemplated jumping. That was one last thing he could share with Sherlock. He could share in his fate. He looked back down at the street, the people walking about carelessly and happy. John envied them.

"John, please, come away from the ledge," Molly pleaded. John inhaled once more, shaking lsightly as he turned and placed his feet onto the rooftop. With effort, he stood. Molly hurried forward and handed him his cane. He turned around to grab his empty coffee cup, but a gust of wind swept over the rooftop and sending it to the ground.

John stared out over the ledge for what seemed like ages. He nodded his head slightly and turned back as he felt a soft hand grab his arm. He looked at Molly, and she smiled solemnly as she led him across the rooftop.

"I'm leaving for the day," he finally muttered. "I need to make a visit."

...

The graveyard seemed, if possible, even quieter than when he and Mrs. Hudson had first visited Sherlock's grave, right after his funeral. John stood still as he stared down at the tombstone.

"Today was a bit boring," he started. He leaned into his cane and looked up into the trees, the sunlight filtered into green as it passed throught the leaves. "Actually, these past few months have been boring." He attempted a laugh, but nothing came out. The muscles in his face felt strange as he tried to form even the smallest smile.

"I haven't talked to you in while. Sorry about that." The tombstone was unresponsive. John felt the silence as a heavy weight, crushing down on him. He stared back at the stone, Sherlock's name boldly marked upon it. He inhaled, his body beginning to shake.

"I miss you," he whispered. The facade he'd kept up throughout the day fell down, and John let his tears flow freely down his cheeks. "God, I miss you." He rubbed his eyes roughly, and attempted to breathe deeply. He stopped half-way, as if his air supply had been cut off. His lungs stung, and the ache in his chest expanded.  
>He stared at his reflection in the tombstone, and a sudden rage filled him.<p>

"How could you..." he choked out. "After everything I've done for you...for _us_..." John hit the breaking point.

"_You selfish bastard!_" he yelled and threw his cane to the ground. "We were supposed to be a team! A unit! A member can't just quit because they get tired, or if times get hard!"

The tombstone remained silent.

"I can't do this..." His words came out in croak as his voice broke. John put his face into his hands and sobbed. After a few moments, he let his hands fall down to his sides as he limped towards the tombstone. His legs finally gave out, forcing John to crawl to the stone. He grabbed it with both hands and he continued to cry. "I need you..."

His tears glided down the stone and over the lettering, leaving clean trails in the dirt and dust that had collected there. John attempted to control his breathing, though his body continued to shake. He gripped the headstone, trying to imagine himself embracing Sherlock.

Time passed. John didn't know how much, nor did he care.

He slowly moved off of the stone and sat down next to it. His leg ached, and so did his chest and head, but he ignored the pain. That was all he could do. That's all he ever did anymore.

He inhaled deeply. "Next time I visit, I promise to be more composed," he spoke softly. "As long as you're still here, I'll still come." He reached down, placing his hand on the ground where Sherlock was buried, and felt the grass there.

_"Goodbye, John."_

John forced himself off the ground and grabbed his cane. He took his time leaving the graveyard, but he didn't look back.

* * *

><p>Please remember to review! Come to talk to me on tumblr! (I'm stephanieloren)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** As always, a huge thanks to my tumblr friend who has been beta reading my story throughout. She is such a wonderful human being. Thanks to all of you, as well, for reading so far. Please continue to review, and I hope you will continue to enjoy this story as it progresses. (Come check me out on tumblr! I'm stephanieloren)

Poor John. It will get better, I promise.

**Disclaimer: **The only character I own is an OC in this chapter. I do not own Sherlock and its characters, for they are owned by the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Also, in the recent version, by Gatiss and Moffat. Those brilliant men.

**Warning:** Language (this chapter)

**When written, listened to: **Bach - Double Violin Concerto in D Minor (2nd Mvt); Beethoven - Violin Romance No. 2

* * *

><p>Eleven months after the fall, John found someone who dulled the consistent ache in his chest.<p>

Fifteen months after the fall, John was alone once again.

As he sat in the small café, he realized he had no where to go. She had left to go to America. He wrapped his hands around the hot cup of coffee, steadily relieving them from the cold that clutched them. He brought the cup to his lips and let the liquid scorch his tongue and down the length of his throat, pooling in his stomach. The warmth spread through his midsection, but did nothing to relieve the ache near his heart.

John thought the ache was purely emotional. After some time, though, he began to worry that there was something physically wrong with his heart. He gathered up the courage to visit one of the doctors at Bart's to check him. As it turned out, the emotional stress John had gone through since Sherlock...died (yes, he could it a little easier now) was causing high blood pressure and irregular heart rhythms, as well as the ache. The doctor prescribed him medication, fearing that the stress would cause eventual heart disease. Although the medication kept the physical aspects of his heart in check, the ache would not leave John. It depended soley on emotion.

_Time should heal all __wounds_, John thought, the voice in his head barely above a whisper. _But this is how I'm going to die. Slowly and painfully._

He smirked, feeling bitter at the irony that mocked him. No war nor serial killer was able to defeat Doctor John Watson. Instead, the doctor would be defeated by his own body.

Two weeks after being prescribed his medication, John met Evangeline. He was in a book store, searching for anything to distract him from his heart ache. He didn't care about the author or genre, he just needed something. He needed another world to hide in. However, he purposefully avoided novels containing angst and death of close friends. He winced as he pushed unwelcomed memories into the dark corner of his mind.

Evangeline had heard him wince and asked if he was alright, offering paracetamol that she was carrying in her small handbag. Her dark hair curled down the sides of her face like curtains, her amber eyes swallowing him in a look of genuine kindness and concern. After introductions and slightly awkward pauses, their converstation picked up and lasted for nearly two hours, ending up with John sitting next to her on the book store floor, their feet pressed against the shelf in front of them. She insisted that John should call her Eve, and everytime he forgot, she giggled. He admired the way her nose scrunched up when she smiled. The ache in his chest had already begun to fade.

Remarkably, Eve became smitten with John, and he discovered that he returned the feelings to certain degree. She became his other medication; whenever Eve was around him, he felt the pain reduce. It never disappeared, and was never completely relieved, but it was the first time John could breathe a little easier and genuinely smile.

He moved into her flat three weeks after the day in the book store.

At first, it really was grand. John felt a sense of normalcy return to his life. The dates were fun, the sex was good, and their general conversation was rarely boring. Eve would sneak kisses on his neck, and he returned the sentiment by kissing her nose, receiving that adorable smile that he enjoyed. More often than not, returning to the flat after escaping the pouring rain that engulfed London turned into being undressed and passionately made love to, although John was never there one hundred percent. His mind could be swallowed up by Eve, but his heart never gave in fully. Cuddling on the couch while watching films left a pang of guilt in John's gut that, at times, made him so uncomfortable that he had to leave her and sit in his study.

As John reminisced, the sounds of the café recalled him to the present, to the coffee growing cold in his hands. He signaled the waitress to fill his cup with fresh coffee. He watched silently as the new coffee mixed with the cold. The warmth returned to his hands.

"This is what should have happened", he mumbled quietly. The edlerly waitress frowned slightly.

"I'm sorry, dear, what did you say?" she asked. He glanced up at her, not really looking, and stared back down at his cup.

"Nothing. Thank you."

If she said anything else, John was unaware of it. His mind was already gone again, flooded with memories and scenarios that could have happened, but hadn't.

Eve was fresh. New. John had become cold. By coming into his life, he should have become rejuvinated. In a way, he had. Unfortunately, it didn't change him - he was still as cold inside as he was before they met.

Eve had noticed the decline in passion and interest in their relationship, as well as the more frequent visits to Sherlock's grave. Sometimes, John went nearly three times a week. One night, Eve fixed him hearty potato soup and sat down with him.

"Aren't you going to eat?" John asked her, blowing air onto the scorching soup in his spoon. She stared at him as he brought the bite up to his mouth and swallowed, the warmth of the food causing him to relax. She sighed.

"You should move out," Eve stated simply. Her eyes bore into John's, and he felt the ache in his chest slowly rise. He huffed a laugh, disbelief clearly etched on his sleep derprived face.

"What? Why? I thought we were good..." John trailed off. Eve's gaze was unwavering.

"We were great. I'm very fond of you, but we aren't..." She glanced at the window behind John's head, then back at him. "This won't work. It was wonderful at first."  
>John blinked. "What happened, then?"<p>

"That's just it. Nothing did." John stared at Eve, waiting for her to continue. "You were a broken man when I met you, John. I thought I could fix you. It turns out that...you don't want to be fixed."

"How could you say-"

"You don't want to forget. You don't want to forget him."

John had suddenly wished that he hadn't confided in Eve about Sherlock. He felt hot tears threatening to well up in his eyes.

"I could never." Eve reached out and touched John's hand.

"I know that. But John...your heart-"

"My heart is fine. I had an appointment not six days ago," he interrupted her.

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it." John stared at her intensely, suddenly wishing that her amber eyes were a striking blue. He didn't speak.

"Your heart, John. That's the problem," Eve continued. "We were great together, but...your heart didn't, and still doesn't, belong to me."

John swallowed hard, the pain in his chest raging like a fire. He knew it was true. He couldn't look her in the eye.

"Eve, I'm sorry..." She squeezed his hand in reassurance.

"I'm not angry with you, John. I am hurt, but I realized that I couldn't force you into something you're not emotionally ready for." She paused, willing her lips to form the words that she had prepared for this night. "So, we have to let go. You need time and healing. I'm not the person who can give you that healing. In time, you'll find them. But I can't provide you with what you're looking for. Our time together has come and gone, and it's time to move on. You have to promise me something, though. Look at me John."

John struggled to look into her burning eyes.

"You can't give up. No matter how hard life becomes, you can't give up. Hold onto what you have and look forward to the future, and what it will bring you. Promise me that, John."

He wanted to mean it with every fiber of his body, but he knew he didn't. "I promise."

John brought the coffee cup to his lips once more, attempting to relish the warmth. He felt nothing. The numbness returned, snaking up his legs and across his entire body, covering him in shadow. The noise in the café seemed to become drowned in silence that was only in John's mind. He tried to inhale deeply, but the pain in his chest allowed only a shallow breath.

Reality came back, the noise of the restaurant and the feeling of the heat from his coffee returning. He was wrong before. He did have somewhere to go. In order to heal, he understood that he had to return. John placed the money for his coffee on the table, grabbed his cane, and walked out the door of the café. He reached the curb of the sidewalk and hailed a cab. One stopped next to him, and he climbed in slowly, manuvering his leg to a position that caused him the least amount of pain.

"Where to?" The cabbie barked. John inhaled and exhaled slowly.

"221 Baker Street."

...

"John!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pulling him into a soft embrace. John accepted the comforting hug, but his body continued to tremble. She shuffled him inside the door, taking his jacket. "Are alright, dear?"

John saw no point in prolonging what he had come for. Though, panic shot through his body at the thought of Mrs. Hudson declining him.

"Mrs. Hudson, I would like to move back into 221B," he mumbled, his words sounding jumbled. His body was tense as he stared at Mrs. Hudson for her reaction. He was surprised to see a small smile playing at her lips.

"I've been waiting for you to come back," she stated. "Do you have your things with you?"

John nodded. Mostly because of nerves, he had redirected the cabbie to drive to his temporary flat, planning to sleep on his decision. However, when he entered his flat, he stared at the still packed boxes and decided to gather them and set off to Baker Street. After paying the cabbie what he thought was too much, he had set his belongings on the sidewalk before knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Well, bring them inside, then," she said enthusiastically, waving her hand forward. He nodded and began to bring his boxes inside the door. Once he had everything in, Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind him, finalizing his decision. He stared at the steps that led up to 221B, his heart thundering beneath his chest.

"Take your time dear," Mrs. Hudson commented softly, rubbing his shoulder. "I'll bring you some tea in a bit." She walked down the hallway into her own flat and closed the door behind her, leaving John with his possessions and his head reeling. Leaving the boxes behind, he slowly climbed the stairs, his hand caressing the banister. His hand clasped the door handle and pushed it open.

John surveyed the sight before him. Everything was how he had left it when he'd visited around the time of Sherlock's funeral, though Mrs. Hudson had clearly dusted, tidying just a bit here and there. His eyes fell onto Sherlock's chair and his heart ached. He left the cane by the door and limped over to it, feeling the material. He had the urge to sit down in attempt to feel some sort of connection, but there were still outlines left from another body. Sherlock.

He traced the outlines with his calloused hands and felt a pang of sorrow. His eyes scanned around the room, memory after memory playing in front of him like a film. He wasn't sure how long he stood there. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe thirty. His eyes continued to move until they stopped on a door across the room. His heart began to race, and when he tried to move forward, it felt like he was in sludge. Time seemed to slow down, and an eternity passed before he reached the door. John's hands shook as he grabbed hold of the door handle.

He opened the door.

John knew immediately that the door to Sherlock's bedroom had not been opened since before the funeral, when Mrs. Hudson had to clean out any experiments or food left in here. He knew because, as his mind reeled and his body shook, Sherlock's scent filled his nostrils. Excitement and sorrow surged through his mind, causing John to become dizzy and nearly fall to the ground.

_How could this be? How, after over a year, could Sherlock's scent still be here?_ John's thoughts nearly screamed.

He clung to the wall, fearing that he would fall over. Tears streamed down his face as he crossed the room, surpressed memories fighting to break the surface. He collapsed onto Sherlock's bed and immediately curled into the unmade blankets. He gripped the sheets in attempt to stop himself from sobbing, but it did nothing.  
>John cried out in pain, tears falling freely and fast as his sobs racked his entire frame. Each desperate and choked inhale made it worse as Sherlock scent scorched his lungs. He wished it away in false earnest, burying his face into one of Sherlock's pillows. John's mental barrier broke, and memories cascaded into his mind, causing the ache in his chest to reach a new height as it burned mercilessly.<p>

Another eternity passed. After sobbing until his body ached, John felt a wave a nausia overwhelm him, and he bolted from the bed into the bathroom where he retched into the toliet. He flushed and washed his hands, then splashed cold water onto his face, wiping away the residue of tears and mucus. He took a handful of water and brought it to his dry lips and drank. The cool liquid felt good as it made its way to his stomach. After drying off, he made his way back to Sherlock's bedroom and sat down on the edge of his bed. Fatigue suddenly took him, and the last thing he felt before unconciousness swallowed him was the softness of Sherlock's pillow meeting his face.

...

"John."

John awoke, but his eyes remained closed. He heard and felt movement at the end of the bed.

"John," the deep voice called out again. The voice screamed familiar, and yet he did not open his eyes. The sound of a violin being played softly filled the room. John felt warmth begin to fill his chest, dulling the pain.

"What is that you're playing?" John asked sleepily. He felt comfortable within the thick blankets, the desire to stay in bed strong. He hadn't slept this well in a long time.

"Beethoven. Violin Romance Number Two." The deep voice paused. "I've only ever played this when I am alone. This is just for you, John."

John's pulse sped up. Why wasn't he opening his eyes yet?

After a few minutes, John spoke again. "It's lovely. But why are you playing it for me?"

The voice did not reply for a few moments. "It is difficult to explain."

John frowned slightly. "Why?"

"I am unsure of how to approach the situation," the voice replied, continuing to make the violin sing beautifully. The voice echoed in John's mind, stirring it into action.

_Open your damn eyes!_ It seemed to scream at him.

"What was it that you thought about me, John? You learned it quickly after we met," the voice questioned.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," John replied hesitantly. His pulse began to increase again.

"If my words could not express what I was feeling, my eyes could."

John's breathing hitched and his heart beat pulsed in his ears. The violin continued to be played for him.

_How...no. No. It couldn't be. It was impossible. _

"Look at me, John," the voice commanded softly, an edge of tenderness outlining it. John finally obeyed. He sat up and looked to the end of the bed.

If John had gone insane, he didn't care. The sunlight peeked throught the curtains on the window and reflected in brilliant blue eyes. John looked over the mop of dark hair, the high cheekbones, the curved, pink lips, and finally back into the keen, intelligent eyes. John thought his heart had stopped.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock continued to play the violin, his movements gracious and accurate. John scanned over Sherlock's neck and down his torso, admiring the way Sherlock's muscles worked as he played the instrument. John had the sudden urge to be close to him. He moved down the bed and sat down until both of their crossed knees were touching. Shivers rippled through John's body.

He stared into Sherlock's eyes, looking, no, observing what thoughts or emotions were hidden there. The pain in John's chest seemed to nearly disappear as waves of affection suddenly hit him, swallowing him up almost completely.

"What do you observe?" Sherlock asked him, the violin still sounding out. John couldn't hear the violin anymore. All his senses were tuned into Sherlock, their eyes never leaving the others. Sherlock smiled softly, and realization hit John.

"You-" he started.

"Stop," Sherlock said suddenly, setting the violin to the side. John felt slightly confused until Sherlock's forhead touched his. His whole body warmed, only increasing as Sherlock's body heat radiated off onto John. Sherlock's breath ghosted over John's cheek, and John wanted nothing more than to melt into him.

Sherlock's soft lips pressed against John's, and John felt his whole world rock and sway. Sherlock's arms went around him, holding him near. One of John's hands rested on Sherlock's hip, the other snaking into his hair.

The kiss ended too soon as Sherlock pulled away and looked down into John's half lidded eyes. He nodded slightly.

"For you, John. It was always for you."

John suddenly felt the warmth leave him, and he looked around the dark room in confusion. The sun had just been out, why was it dark? Where did Sherlock-

His mind screeched to a halt as realization crashed into John. It was just a dream. Just a fucking dream.

"No," John whispered out of disbelief, running his hands through his hair. The fact that Sherlock's scent filled the air did not make it easier to accept that what just happened had been a dream.

John felt as if he would cry again, but his eyes were dried from the sobbing before he had fallen asleep. He gripped the bed sheets as dry sobs racked his body.  
>The pain in John's chest roared. He went from feeling filled to feeling hollow, knowing that the healing that Eve had spoken of before could only be done by one person. Only one person could complete him, and that man was dead.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** TURNING POINT. Sorry, had to get that out. This chapter is one of the turning points in the story. I won't say too much, so just go ahead and read! As always, love and thanks to my beta reader; she is lovely. Please don't forget to review and share! :-) [[ and come find me on Tumblr! Just search stephanieloren ]]

**Disclaimer: **I do not own John Watson or any of the other BBC _Sherlock_ characters.

**Warning:** Disturbing situations (thoughts of suicide)

**When written, listened to: "**Assassin's Creed Theme" from the Assassin's Creed: Revelations OST. I suggest listening to it while reading.

* * *

><p>John took a deep breath.<p>

He felt a strange calm sweep over him. He had assumed that he would be consumed with fear until he pulled the trigger. Instead, he felt comforted, soothed.

The gun weighed heavily in his hands. He had contemplated doing it in Sherlock's old bedroom, and he grimaced at the thought of Mrs. Hudson having to find him. He'd thought about killing himself somewhere else, anywhere else, and Bart's had come to mind, but even that seemed wrong to John. He felt close to Sherlock as he sat on the edge of his old bed, running his hands through the soft sheets.

John traced his temple with his gun, ready to fire when it felt right. He had originally intended to sit at the end of the cold bed for no more than five minutes before he fired, but something inside him urged him to wait. It had been twenty-one months since Sherlock had died. He could wait a little while longer before joining him.

A commotion sounded from downstairs, and John's muscles tensed, panic sparking in his mind. He clenched the gun and lined it up for the shot. No one was going to take him away from Sherlock.

...

Twenty-one months, four days, and three hours had passed since the confrontation with Moriarty.

In that span of time, Sherlock was able to cripple several of Moriarty's operations located across the globe, including Japan, Brazil, South Africa, and Australia. Each task increased in difficultly, and Sherlock had the scars to prove it. They would fade with time.

Throughout his research and physical confrontations, Sherlock had been able to keep an eye on John. He still had a few connections with the homeless network, but he preferred to observe John himself. Unfortunately, circumstances that included Mycroft prevented him from doing so.

_"He is fairing well, brother. Despite the scare on the rooftop of the hospital a few months back, John has managed to pull around. He is living with a new girlfriend."_

_ "Yes, I know."_

_ "Then you would also know that it would be unwise to continue into London when there are other matters to attend to."_

_ "It will only take a few more months."_

_ "My dear brother, hunting down and destorying the remnants of Moriarty's operations will take at least a few more years."_

_ "I meant that it will only take a few more months until Evangiline breaks it off. Although she provides some means of comfort and security, John's emotional and physical state continues to deteriorate. She'll realize that she's not enough for him, and she'll end it." _

_ "How could you possibly know the state John is in?"_

_ "I still have eyes across the city, Mycroft."_

_ "You worry about him."_

_ "Of course." _

The homeless network remained useful to Sherlock, feeding him information not only about the happenings in the city, but on how John was coping in the aftermath of Sherlock's apparent suicide. Though Sherlock's focus remained entirely on the task of crippling Moriarty's empire, he could not ignore the implications of his near-constant state of worry. The unfamiliar emotion had become all too familiar as Sherlock's thoughts continually swayed towards John and his welfare. Another unfamiliar emotion distracted his thoughts and, on occasion, sleeping patterns. A dull ache had formed after Sherlock had left London twenty-one months ago, that would grow into a near searing pain when John crossed his thoughts. He felt incomplete.

Sherlock missed John.

It wasn't the kind of longing that belonged in sappy televisions programmes or pathetic novels, in which the emotion was frequently superficial. It was deeper, as if a connection had been severed. Sherlock was a quality machine; efficient, precise, detatched. When he became attached to John, it added to his drive, his efficiency, like a missing cog finally completing a machine. Once that cog was taken away...

A subtle grimace crossed Sherlock's face as he stared out into the city of London, the harsh, cold wind making goosebumps crawl across his skin, even through his layers of clothing. He had been observing John for eight days, gradually moving his scout positions around Bart's and 221B closer each day. He had contacts move through the hospital, claiming to be patients, in order to observe John's every movement, however miniscule. Sherlock managed to gain a vantage point near 221B in order to see John through the flat windows. The inclination to watch John closely weighed firmly in Sherlock's mind, and so he recorded each detail.

On the second day of observation, Sherlock noticed John's behavior change. It was a subtle change, unimportant to the ordinary eye, but it had Sherlock feeling tense and uneasy. He usually went to pubs with his coworkers (or occasionally Lestrade), but the social meet-ups had suddenly ceased.

On the fourth day, John had tidyed up both his hospital office and the flat, earning a hug from Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson attempted to give warmth, comfort, thanks. John returned the hug with stiff, unsure movements, an indication of detachment. Recorded.

Over the following days, John called up a few relatives, including his parents and Harry. One call was not very significant, but multiple calls within the span of three days to multiple people that were considered close to John sent red flags off in Sherlock's mind.

It was the eigth day of observation, and Sherlock felt a stinging sensation begin to bubble in his mind. Something was wrong, that was obvious. The mere thought of John was clouding his mind from possible solutions, as well as causing unfamiliar stirrings in his chest, resulting in Sherlock feeling frustrated and slightly confused. John was so close. Sherlock felt the physical pull to run after John as he watched him limp out of Bart's and hail a cab, an unnatural calmness about him. He was entirely too close.

Once John's cab was out of sight, Sherlock had a cab drop him off a block from Baker Street. Normally, he would simply walk so as to not bring attention to himself in fear of being recognized, but the worry in his mind would not fade. Sherlock kept the hood of his jacket over his head during the ride, and remained silent while paying the cabbie. As he made his way to his vantage point, he stopped in his tracks, then slipped into the darkness of an alleyway. Mrs. Hudson was walking down the sidewalk with an elderly gentleman. Sherlock watched as the man opened a car door for Mrs. Hudson, observing their appearance. Mrs. Hudson was wearing deep purple dress, new shoes, recently applied make-up, and if Sherlock were closer, he was sure he would smell fresh perfume. The man was dressed in semi-formal attire, so it was obviously a date. Sherlock racked his brain, and ah! There was a film premiere that night downtown. It was rare of Mrs. Hudson to dress up and attend such an occasion, even if it were for a date, but Sherlock supposed it was-

_Wait!_ Sherlock's brain seemed to scream at him. His breathing and heart rate increased as his mind pieced bits of information together. The worry in the pits of his mind boiled over into another unfamiliar sensation: panic. John's strange behavior added up: cleaning up the office and flat, indicating a leave of absense or associating cleaning with getting affairs in order; detachment and lack of interest with interacting socially; calling several family members, indicating a sort of farewell; feeling calm, a sudden contrast to previous behavior; and now, the opportunity of being alone by getting Mrs. Hudson out of the flat. Sherlock dug his fingernails into his thighs, struggling to inhale as panic swelled in his head and chest. John was going to commit suicide.

_John. _

With a rush of adrenaline, Sherlock sprinted down the sidewalk and, using his spare key, unlocked the door to 221B. Going four steps at a time, Sherlock arrived at the door to flat within a few bounds. He rushed in, emotions and John's scent flooding his mind. The importance of finding the last few remaining agents in Moriarty's operations seemed to fade as he willed his senses to locate where John was inside the flat. Sherlock's eyes ghosted over his bedroom door. His heart seemed to plunge as he strode closer.

_Stop!_ His mind screamed, searching for logic through the fog of emotions. Sherlock stopped near the door. How incredibly stupid! If he were to barge into the room to save John, the surprise of seeing him after twenty-one months, when he was supposed to be dead, would add stress to an already stressful situation, causing him to pull the trigger anways (John would use gun; easily accessible, quick, painless, emotional ties from the war).

Sherlock stood for a moment before he spotted some paper on the fireplace mantle. His chest felt as if it was slowly being robbed of its air as he quietly grabbed a pen from the desk and started writing. He needed to be quick. John would chase after him.

...

The commotion suddenly stopped. John realized he had been holding his breath as he slowly exhaled. Mrs. Hudson probably just forgot something.

As he prepared himself once more, he felt a nagging sensation to put the gun down. Anger rose within him. What had happened to the calmness he felt before? Why was he suddenly unwilling to kill himself?

As he sat in Sherlock's bedroom, the natural light from outside began to fade, and John felt weariness grip his entire body. The ache in his chest swelled. He gripped at it through his sweater, inhaling slowly.

_What am I doing? This isn't the answer. It just can't be._

As he lowered the gun from his head, a familiar scent ghosted up into his nostrils, making his heart jump. Sherlock's scent had faded away months ago, and yet there it was, making John's head spin. He frowned when a rustle by the door interrupted his thoughts. He placed the gun next to him on the bed and slowly stood up, his leg complaining at the movement.

John limped to the door. As he approached it, a thin piece of paper slid under the door frame. John frowned, staring at the paper, his heart hammering in his chest as he bent down to pick it up. He closed his eyes tightly before opening the folded sheet, nearly yelling as he read the writing there:

**Hold on, John. Please, just hold on... - SH**

Sherlock's scent floated up from the paper as he scanned over the writing, reading and re-reading it. John's eyes began to water as he gripped it tighter, wishing against the odds that it was real, that Sherlock was...alive.

A wave of adrenaline and triumph crashed over John. Something clicked in his mind when he heard quick footsteps making thier way across the flat and down the stairs. He felt his whole world stop.

"Sherlock," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Sherlock."

In a blur, John sprinted out of the room, down the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk, the ache in his leg and chest forgotten. He saw a figure in a dark hoodie and jeans running down the street. John took the chance and sprinted after him, his military training kicking in as he maintained his pace. The figure was about Sherlock's height, his long legs carrying him far and fast. John found his voice.

"Sherlock!" he yelled after the figure, turning down an alleyway full of garbage and muddy puddles. John's jeans were quickly soaked as he ran through them, never slowing his pace. He turned a corner, and discovered that the alleyway split into two. He hesitated, but chose the path that went left and continued to run.

After ten minutes, John stopped. He never caught a glimpse of the figure again after the alleyway junction. He had just followed his gut and hoped he was right. He wasn't.

_Sherlock knows every twist and turn of this city. If he doesn't want to be found, he won't be_, John thought, leaning against a brick wall to catch his breath. The ache returned to his leg, but not his chest. The pain was faint compared to the last twenty-one months. He thought of the note, and his heart skipped again.

_I will, Sherlock. For you._

...

Sherlock froze as he heard John's reaction to opening the letter.

_Why aren't you moving? Leave now, before he opens that door!_ His mind screamed. He wanted to stay. He wanted John to open the door and see him, to see that he was there. Tangible. Able to be touched. _Wanting_ to be touched. His breathing rate and body heat increased as he imagined John embracing him, the closeness of thier bodies; the feeling of John's breath on his cheek; John's hands, eyes, lips...

Another mental snap, and Sherlock was bounding down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, the flat and John a blur behind him. He didn't even make it entirely down the sidewalk before he heard John's desperate call.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to turn back around and run to his friend. But he continued on, running as fast as his feet could carry him. He knew John's military training would kick in soon, and he was up for a long run. He quickly mapped out alleyways in his mind, and chose to run down a darkened, filthy one, with muddied water puddles that splashed him when he dashed through them. He heard another cry from John, and Sherlock felt his heart pull and his eyes moisten.

_Stay focused. _

He came to where the alley split into two, and Sherlock bounded up the ladder to his right and onto the building above. He slowed to watch John chose the left path, searching desperately for any sign of him. Sherlock knew that if John decided to turn around, he would try the other route before thinking of the rooftops. He watched John's figure until it was out of his line of sight, and he felt another unfamiliar stirring in his chest.

"Soon, John," he whispered, trying to catch his breath. The derailing of Moriarty's operations was almost at a close. Once it was completed, Sherlock would return. A wave of uneasiness rippled through him as he contemplated coming back. He didn't care for what the media or the employees of Scotland Yard would think of or say about him. He was thinking of only one person.

_Will John even forgive me?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Whoa, quick update! After a lovely follower on Tumblr praised my story (in which I felt very honored to receive such), I said I would post another chapter, as long as I wrote another to stay ahead (I currently have nine chapters, muahaha). Thank you to my beta-reader, and of course, all of my lovely readers. Please review! [[ come find me on Tumblr! Just search stephanieloren ]]

**Disclaimer: **I do not own John, Sherlock, Mycroft, or _anyone else_. Silly people. This is just for fun.

**Warning:** Language, very mild violence

**When written, listened to: **"Animal Life" - Shearwater

* * *

><p><span>22 Months Since The Fall<span>

A powerful force brewed, churned, bubbled within John, sending tingling sensations throughout his body. He smiled, unable to contain the overwhelming feeling of hope. His heart swelled every time he thought back to Sherlock's hand writing sketched on the piece of paper, which now resided at John's bedside. Warmth enveloped his being as he read it every night.

John remembered the odd mixture of emotions that swirled inside him after the chase the month before. As he was leaning against that brick wall, he became dizzy as confusion, hope, excitement, and anger consumed him in a mental whirlwind:

_I saw Sherlock die. How did he survive?_

_Sherlock was alive. Jesus, he was alive. Not gone. Here._

_Sherlock, my friend. My best friend. I want you here again, beside me. When things were as normal as they could be._

_Damn it, I'm going strangle that son-of-a-bitch. When I get my hands on you, Sherlock, you manipulative bastard..._

Now, John sat at the end of Sherlock's freshly made bed, glancing around the darkened room. He had cleaned the bedroom, much to the surprise and slight protest of Mrs. Hudson. When she tried to help him, he'd simply wave her away and continued organizing and dusting. He had opened the windows briefly, allowing the staleness of the room to be refreshed by the sharp, cold air of London. John wanted to attempt to refresh the room, all in hopes that Sherlock would come home soon.

_Home._John's heart fluttered briefly at the thought. Would Sherlock considerate it as such?

…

"Your careless actions have jeopardized our operations," Mycroft stated firmly, his eyes boring into his younger brother. Sherlock glanced up at him.

"My actions were anything but careless, Mycroft. Outstanding job on keeping an eye on John, by the way," Sherlock seethed, anger sparking up from deep inside him.

"We were keeping a watchful eye on Doctor Watson, I assure you, Sherlock. He was improving."

"He nearly killed himself!" Sherlock found himself shouting, the flint of anger turning into a flame. "If I hadn't intervened, John would have been lost." He cleared his throat, suppressing images of John blasting his brains across the bedroom.

"He is a strong individual, Sherlock," Mycroft replied calmly. "Even if what you say is true, I do not believe he would have followed through with the act. Do not let your pride twist your judgement."

Sherlock didn't reply. He focused on his breathing and the fact that John was still alive, calming himself down. He steepled his fingers together in front of his face and closed his eyes, reliving the sensation of having John so near after so long. The unfamiliar fluttering in his chest returned.

"You shan't visit him until our operations are concluded," Mycroft stated, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock answered, "They will be within the year."

28 Months Since The Fall

"You again?" The blonde woman asked John, her face straight in contrast to her smiling eyes. John refrained from smiling himself, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Yeah, I thought I saw you outside my flat again, so I've come to, uh, help...you out," he mumbled, as she rolled her eyes and leaned forward, her dirt-smudged face amused.

"You're not very good at this, you know," she whispered. John blinked a few times and cleared his throat. After four months, was he still not able to do this right? He supposed he felt a bit nervous about the whole thing.

"Do you want my money or not?" he asked, feigning frustration. He waved the money in front of the woman's face, and she grabbed his wrist with one hand, using the other to take the payment. She unfolded it, revealing the end of a small piece of paper hidden there.

"Much obliged, sir," she commented, pocketing the money within her oversized coat. John nodded and walked away. To the eye of the public, he had just aided a homeless girl. However, John had just sent another message, one of the many he had written over the past four months. His stomach curled in excitement at the thought of it reaching its destined hands. He had not received a reply as of yet, but he retained the hope that he would very soon.

…

The blonde woman glanced around before placing a small piece of paper under a couple of bricks. She slid the bricks back towards their original pile, dusting off her hands and stretching her back.

As Sherlock observed from a distance, she walked out from under the overhang of the bridge. Muscles relaxed. Steady pace. Her boots were dirty, but no more than usual; no splashes of muddied water up her legs, indicating the avoidance of puddles and the time to do so. Wasn't followed. Eased facial lines, indicating a pleasant conversation rather than a stressed one. John was fine.

When Sherlock knew the woman was a decent distance away from the bridge, he strode briskly towards the pile of bricks, anticipation wrapping itself around his stomach. With a gloved hand, he sought the scrap of paper beneath the bricks, sighing once he freed it. He nearly ran back to his vantage point, his breath caught in his throat.

Once there, Sherlock inhaled deeply before opening the paper. As he read and re-read John's writing, he felt warmth spread throughout his body.

**Time doesn't seem to be affecting me as much as I thought it would. Every day, my hope seems to be growing stronger. Whatever you're up to, I know it must be important. But, please...hurry. I miss you. -JW **

Sherlock gripped the paper tight between his fingers, feeling his heart flutter, an action he had come to associate with affection.

35 Months Since The Fall

Sherlock felt his fist strike home as the relentless snow whipped across his face. His opponent crumpled before him, unconscious and broken. Sherlock panted, attempting to regain his breath. The fight was over. He felt a surge of triumph, and contained the laughter that bubbled up from his chest.

He sent a quick text to Mycroft, and a mere forty-three seconds later, a helicopter flew from around the mountain and across the pass. Mycroft's men flowed out of the helicopter as it landed softly onto the compacted snow. Sherlock stared as the men gathered his opponent up from the ground, handcuffing him and carrying him to the helicopter.

Sherlock was still staring at the blood stained snow when Mycroft approached him. He felt his brother's eyes sweep over him as Sherlock turned to face him.

"You are injured," Mycroft commented over the hum of the helicopter blades.

"Left seventh and eighth ribs. Simple fractures. No internal damage. Binding and time are the most efficient cures in this case," Sherlock replied simply. Although he couldn't hear Mycroft, he observed his shoulders move in a way that suggested sighing. They climbed into the helicopter, sitting opposite of each other. Sherlock gazed out the window at the Pyrenees mountains, a sight magnificent to behold as the sunset painted a fitting background of gold and purple.

"It's over, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, watching for his reaction. Sherlock nodded, already aware of the fact. What was left of Moriarty's empire was crippled, the last operator now within their custody. He winced at the pain in his chest as he shifted in his seat. "Do you know what this means?"

"Yes. Back to solving dull cases," Sherlock muttered. How interesting.

"Sherlock."

The tone in Mycroft's voice changed, charged with an underlying emotion. Sherlock looked up at him, waiting for him to continue. Sherlock observed Mycroft suppress the urge to roll his eyes as he leaned forward in his seat.

"You can return to 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock stiffened, remembering. He could return after nearly three years. Back to London. Back to Baker Street. Back to _John_.

He felt his heart swell, his mind racing ahead of him as the thought of John swallowed him whole. His scent. His heat. His laugh. The subconscious increase in blood pressure when they were near each other. His lit up expression when Sherlock solved a case. The way John would look when Sherlock finally returned to him.

"After you...reveal yourself to him, I shall ensure that Scotland Yard does not come knocking," Mycroft commented, relaxing back into his seat after analyzing Sherlock's expression. "You needn't be distracted."

When a slight frown flickered across Sherlock's face, Mycroft sighed once more. "You're going to have to explain a lot to John, Sherlock. That could take some time."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** It's been a while, and I apologise. Work and college finals make one's life quite busy and hectic. Fortunately, I have returned with a lovely three month break, so expect frequent updates. Please remember to review! It gives me great encouragement. Thanks again to my wonderful beta-reader for shaping up this chapter nicely, and thank you for reading it!

Oh, and if you come to fine me on tumblr, search stephanieloren. I changed my name, but some reason this site isn't allowing me to post it...? But I still tag personal posts with stephanieloren, so come on over and talk! :-)

On with the show. ~

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any characters of BBC _Sherlock_. I'm just playing with them.

**Warning:** Language, heated moments (but no smut)

**When written, listened to: **"You As You Were" - Shearwater

* * *

><p>Sherlock hung his coat and scarf in the entryway of 221B. After scaring Mrs. Hudson, tears, slaps, and quiet curses ensued, and Sherlock had to pull her into a hug to calm her.<p>

After she'd calmed, there'd been a few moments of recollection, before she had sweetly caressed his cheek and said, "John isn't here at the moment. Take off your coat, dear, and I'll make you some tea."

Sherlock's skin was electric, anticipation and excitement overwhelming his senses. His spirit was dampened by John's absence, but Mrs. Hudson assured him that he would return at about six. Sherlock had to wait two hours. He could do that.

As Sherlock quietly sipped at his tea, he continually stared at Mrs. Hudson. He wasn't sure what would happen when he and John saw each other after three years. He assured himself that he was simply over analyzing the situation, but he felt nervous. He stomach grew tighter with each passing minute.

"What is it, dear?" Mrs. Hudson had noticed him staring. Sherlock inhaled.

"I believe it would be wise if John and I were to have some privacy over the next few days; especially tonight."

"I won't bother you two, dear. At least," she paused, adding a small smile. "Not tonight."

Sherlock blinked. His heart skipped at the thought of her misinterpreting his meaning. "No, Mrs. Hudson, we're not going to-"

"It's none of my business, dear." She grabbed the cup from Sherlock, and nodded towards the door. Honestly, Sherlock was unsure how tonight's events would play out. Maybe it would lead to...

Sherlock felt a flush of heat creep up his back.

"John will be home soon. He gets off of work early sometimes." Sherlock's heart rate increased as he looked back towards the door. Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder and said, "I'll pretend I'm not home, then, shall I?"

...

John yawned as he walked down the damp sidewalk towards the flat, an Italian take-away bag swaying in time with his limp. His right hand grasped onto his cane, helping him make his way towards a hot shower and bed. The surgery had been hectic all day. He needed to relax.

Although the ache in his chest had slowly returned, John never stopped sending Sherlock those messages. His hope never diminished. He realized he was just...longing for Sherlock to come back.

He sighed inwardly, carefully walking up the steps to 221B. He unlocked the door and shouted, "Mrs. Hudson, I bought you some food. It'll be upstairs." No reply. John shrugged, assuming she was out purchasing groceries or household items.

When he saw the coat rack, it hit him like a lightning bolt.

John dropped both his cane and the bag of take-away food, his jaw agape. Sherlock's scent heavily filled the air, making it hard for John to breathe. He bounded towards the coat and grabbed it, causing the scarf to fall onto the hardwood floor. He picked it up hesitantly, bringing it to his nose and inhaled. The scent was so strong that John dropped it, his knees weak and his mind racing.

_Sherlock. Is he...?_

His eyes shot up to look at the door to their flat. His heart stopped.

The door was ajar, so someone had to be up there. He tried to convince himself it was just Mrs. Hudson, but she never went up there anymore without John's consent. He felt his body urge towards the staircase. John didn't know whether to bound up the stairs, or take them slowly, one by one.

He decided to take them slow, unsure and nervous at what he was about to encounter. His mind raced at a hundred miles per hour. He felt a bead of sweat travel down his back, his ragged breath becoming the only sound to fill the flat. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he reached the flat door and pushed, holding his breath.

He glanced around the flat, seeing nothing out of place. He walked around, peeking through doors and into rooms, searching. Nothing. Confusion began to nestle in the corner of his mind. He stayed in Sherlock's bedroom longer, hoping that he would walk in and embrace John. He balled his hands at his sides, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

He walked back into the living area of the flat, deciding to lay down and attempt to relax. But his mind would not rest. Something wasn't right. He heard a creak of a floorboard behind him, and his body tensed, ready to respond.

"John."

The sound of the deep voice roared in John's ears even though it came out as a strained whisper. He inhaled and turned around to see Sherlock standing rigid at the bottom of the stairs that led up to John's bedroom. John hadn't thought to check his own bedroom yet. He stared at Sherlock, his logic denying that this was real. That this was happening.

John took in his beautifully angled face, dressed with soft, dark curls. His carved lips were slightly apart, letting in ragged breaths. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles. Jesus, his eyes were as stunning as he remembered. The deep, sapphire pools scorched John as he held his gaze. He felt like he was drowning, but not in pain or sadness. He was drowning into warm comfort, and that terrified him. It was exhilarating.

Minutes or hours could have passed as they continued to stare at each other.

"John, say something. Anything," Sherlock pleaded.

Hearing his voice sent John reeling, a mixture of emotions causing uncomfortable friction in his mind. He felt like his heart would break through his rib cage. As Sherlock took a step forward, John instinctively took a step back. Sherlock looked lost, reaching his hand out for John.

"John, please."

Suddenly, a powerful rage swept over John, and he lunged for Sherlock, grabbing his shirt into his fists. He dragged and swung him into a wall, causing Sherlock to wince in pain. John reeled his fist back and swung, clipping Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock groaned but didn't resist as he lined up for another punch, but John faltered. His mind raged, he wanted to sling hundreds of curses at Sherlock, his best friend, the man who made him feel whole, the man who faked his death and left him alone, the man who was now here with him...

John felt his tension melt away as he stared into Sherlock's eyes, realizing how close he was to the man he hadn't seen in three years. His heart fluttered as Sherlock's presence engulfed him; his scent, his heat, his breath. He unclenched his fist and brought his palm up to Sherlock's face, resting it against his cheek. Sherlock flinched, confused, before he leaned into it and slowly exhaled. His breath ghosted over John's face, and John had the sudden need to be closer to him.

He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, never breaking eye contact. John moved his thumb gently across Sherlock's cheek, and the taller man hummed in response. John felt his breathing become ragged. Sherlock brought his arms down from the wall, resting his hands on John's hips, and a rush of heat spread across John's body. John fit his other hand around Sherlock's ear, cupping the right side of his face.

"You bastard," John whispered.

"I know," Sherlock replied, gripping John's hips tighter. John felt tears threaten to well up in his eyes, but he willed them away.

"I've missed you," John said, every inch of his body desiring to be even closer to Sherlock, to drink him in and never let go.

"I'm sorry."

John's heart swelled, nearly beating out of his chest. He continued to stare into Sherlock's eyes as he rocked his hips against him, eliciting a quiet moan from Sherlock. God, this felt good. This felt _too_ good. His breathing hitched as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, pressing him harder against him.

John's knees felt rubbery, his head spinning out of control. Sherlock bent his head down to press a kiss to his neck, and John felt his hips buck up into Sherlock, eliciting another raspy moan. Sherlock nipped gently at his skin, leaving traces of heat that left John trembling. An overwhelming desire surged within John, and he opened his eyes.

_I want him._

John pulled away from Sherlock to stare up into his eyes. He saw uncertainty flash across those blues, and John wanted nothing more than to remove that doubt. He felt his heart stop as he closed the distance between their mouths, the heat a cloud that hung between them. John thought he saw Sherlock's eyes light up in excitement, but it was soon forgotten as their lips met. John felt himself melt completely into Sherlock, wishing he could bury himself inside Sherlock and never surface.

Their lips continually crashed into each other, the pace and passion quickly increasing. Sherlock swept the tip of his tongue across John's lips, and John parted them, moaning as Sherlock's talented tongue tangled with his own. Sherlock brought his hands up to cup the back of John's head, long fingers brushing through short-cropped hair, and sucked at John's lips, smiling as John moaned again. Sherlock broke the kiss, allowing them to gasp in air. It was so hard to breathe.

Sherlock trailed his tongue down John's jaw line, back to the sensitive spot below John's ear, where he kissed and sucked at the skin. John's hips rocked against Sherlock's of their own accord, their growing erections pressing together, and just as his mind began to process this, Sherlock groaned loudly, sending a shiver down John's spine. He didn't stop.

"This...this is..." John breathed, Sherlock humming in response. He brought his lips back from John's neck and crushed them into his, their ragged breathing filling the room. John felt heat rush to his groin, and he had the sudden desire to mark Sherlock in return. He broke away from the kiss, pressing his thin lips to Sherlock's neck to lick, suck and bite.

"John..." Sherlock moaned through swollen lips, eyes raised heavenward. John registered Sherlock's hand slide down the front of his shirt, and it took him a minute to realize that Sherlock had begun to work on his trousers. John inhaled sharply, tearing himself from Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock frowned slightly, a beautiful flush across his face. "John?"

John attempted to catch his breath before answering. "...Too fast..." Sherlock blinked slowly and nodded, slumping against the wall.

"You've got...a lot of explaining to do...Sherlock..." John said quietly, trying ignore the uncomfortable bulge in his trousers. They needed to talk. John needed to know why the hell Sherlock left him for three years. Talking had to come first. Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall, nodding again.

"Come here," he said, grabbing John's hand. He guided them to the couch. "Sit down." John complied, and Sherlock laid down the length of the couch, his head in John's lap.

"Do you mind?" John said quickly, grabbing a pillow and placing it under Sherlock's head, somehow unwilling to simply shove the man out of his lap. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and chuckled smoothly, the sound calming John as it vibrated through Sherlock's chest and against John's legs. Silence filled the room for a few moments, allowing John to bask in Sherlock's presence, the feel and sound and scent of him. The closeness of him after so long.

"Where do you want me to start?" Sherlock inquired softly. John slowly inhaled and exhaled before answering.

"The beginning, right before you...jumped." The last word came out a bit strained. "All the way up to this point, before I entered the flat." John's head was still spinning a bit. He rested his hand on Sherlock's chest, relishing in the fact that the man was breathing, healthy, alive. Sherlock sighed, then drew in a deep breath to begin.

"Alright."**  
><strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Yay, another chapter for you all! The story is beginning to pick up, and the plot will really start rolling in a couple of chapters. Thanks so much for reading, and please remember to review! Forever thanks to my lovely beta-reader Dralore.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any characters of BBC _Sherlock_. Duh.

**Warning:** Heated moments - a bit smutty, but nothing too heavy (yet) ;-)

**When written, listened to: **I don't remember...sorry. Haha

* * *

><p>The three days that followed Sherlock returning to 221B Baker Street had been filled with quiet meals and short conversations. There was entirely too much silence. Sherlock, under normal circumstances, would revel in the stillness, as it enabled him to sift through and categorize his thoughts. Pieces of information that he deemed important were noted and sorted appropriately, and worthless data was deleted. Silence accompanied this process, the machine that was his brain operating smoothly.<p>

This silence was a stark contrast.

Remaining in the flat, a task that first seemed exceedingly simple, was proving to be, in fact, very difficult. Sherlock noted with a grimace that the cause was not the usual, mundane boredom that used to swallow up his time between cases. It was an entirely new sensation. A sensation that was as dangerous as any twisted-mind he had faced before. It held the power to unravel his mind with so much as a reminding memory flashing across his vision. Sherlock's stomach clenched as he analyzed the dizzying, fogging effect this sensation ailed his brain with. The fact that his efficient machine could be reduced to mud with such a simple movement as a brush of fingers against his arm was a startling revelation; one he did not enjoy experiencing repeatedly.

"Want some tea?" John asked quietly, passing Sherlock's still figure in the kitchen. John's hand rested gently on Sherlock's right arm before moving away, the tips of his fingers ghosting across the skin there. Sherlock deduced that this frequent action was to ensure his presence and existence to John, reassuring his, no doubt, still lingering fear. The fuzzy sensation returned to wreak havoc in Sherlock's brain as John's fingers sent memories racing through it. Fascinating. To be lulled into a sense of relaxation while simultaneously heightening the intensity of reaction towards stimuli.

No. He did not enjoy this experience, although his body contended his argument.

Sherlock briefly nodded, gazing over John's frame as he moved about the kitchen. He observed the way in which John's muscles stretched and retracted as he prepared the kettle, and a warm buzzing sensation teased Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock had catalogued the feel of John's muscles under his own hands when they shared in that kiss three nights back. Strong. Solid. A bit soft in the middle. Now, Sherlock wanted to catalogue the feel of his palms against John's bare skin. No barriers between contact. How would his body react? How would John react? Tantalizing. Enough to attempt an experiment.

Frustrating.

Sherlock huffed, turning en pointe, and rushed towards the cool material of the couch in an attempt to halt the heat spreading across his back. John glanced over at him before returning his attention towards the tea.

"Something the matter?"

Remnants of dopamine and serotonin had to still be coursing through his veins. Oxytocin, as well, Sherlock had come to discover. All carted around his system by means of adrenaline. Sherlock felt the same rush of adrenaline as his mind recalled the intense thrill of having his body pressed against John's.

_After three days? _Sherlock's mind mocked him. It was correct. Those chemicals would not have sustained the duration of seventy-two hours. He ignored the fact.

"No," Sherlock replied after a moment. Hesitation. John frowned and turned his body so that it was facing Sherlock's direction.

"Something must be. You didn't reply straight away," John retorted.

"Perhaps I was thinking, John." John huffed.

"You're always thinking."

"Exactly."

"Then that's not a valid excuse." John had stalked out of the kitchen and across the living area to where Sherlock was seated, his bare feet slapping heavily against the hardwood floors. Sherlock guided his eyes down the length of John's form, resisting the urge to halt their focus on one particular area. John continued. "You're always thinking, always analyzing, so your answer should have been shot out immediately, like they normally do." Sherlock's brain failed to comply as he attempted to stop the words forming on his lips; words that would only incite the conversation forward, in a direction he did not want to take.

"This isn't a normal situation, John."

John blinked several times before answering. "What d'you mean?"

It was too late. Sherlock analyzed the possibility of the conversation not leading to some rather...awkward confessions. The percentage was very low.

When Sherlock failed to answer, John shifted closer. The nagging sensation made itself known in the corner of Sherlock's mind, distracting him. The fact that John was standing close to him, dressed in nothing other than a somewhat tight-fitted grey t-shirt and thin navy blue boxers, did not help the situation.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, alright," Sherlock spat out, sharper than intended. He brought his eyes to meet John's, full of questions. But there was an underlying emotion behind the curiosity. Stressed? Nervous? John's body tensed under Sherlock's unwavering gaze.

"Without the complicated explanations, if you wouldn't mind," John mumbled, his eyes quickly glancing down at Sherlock's chest, then back up.

"My explanations are not complicated. Simple minds fail to grasp them," Sherlock quipped. John gave a short bark of laughter before continuing.

"Stop trying to be clever," John said, clenching his fists as he moved an inch closer to the couch. The tension wasn't out of anger, Sherlock observed. As Sherlock glanced up at John's face, the nervous flash across his eyes seemed to be covering something else. Sherlock frowned slightly as he attempted to analyze him from the inside out. John shifted uneasily.

"This is about the other night, isn't it?" Sherlock remained silent as he watched John's chest rise with an inhale of air, but never rest with an exhale. "Sherlock, look, I know that was...unexpected, bu-"

"What was? Me returning, or us kissing?" Sherlock interrupted, the bandages around his chest suddenly too tight.

"Both, actually." John stammered. "I...I just wanted to say, that, that was unintentional, and-"

"It was the effect of our increased adrenaline levels, being that we hadn't seen each in three years." John visibly winced. "If I should venture, our emotional states seemed to have aided in the causation."

In the few moments of silence, Sherlock believed his heart would burst out of his thoracic cavity. The confessions could successfully be avoided, yet he felt like a teenager being caught red-handed while masturbating. Heat pooled down towards Sherlock abdominopelvic region as his memory recollected the sound of John's heated moan. Sherlock cursed the word choice of his thought process.

John blinked more, his fists still clenched. He feigned a laugh of relief. "Right, yeah, that's what I was...yeah." He cleared his throat while glancing around the room.

First, Sherlock read his face. Disappointment?

Then, Sherlock read his body language. It seemed to scream at him as John's tension was suddenly explained. Restraint. John was holding back.

Sherlock's stomach performed an unfamiliar jump. Anticipation curled itself around his gut as heat continued to flow to his groin, the area slowly awakening. Sherlock had the sudden need to inhale deeply.

"Right, well," John mumbled, turning towards the kitchen. "I'm going to finish making-" Sherlock's hand shot out to grasp a hold onto John's right wrist.

"John."

Sherlock didn't mean for his voice to sound so desperate, so_ wanting_, but when John turned his head to face him, Sherlock was glad it did. John had picked up on Sherlock's arousal, lust burning deep in his eyes. Sherlock felt his cock twitch as his hungry eyes swept over him.

Sherlock felt his grip on control falter as John turned back fully towards the couch. He felt the heat return, crawling up his spine as John's face loomed closer and closer still. For a moment, they stayed like this; foreheads touching, their elevated breaths ghosting over each other's faces. Sherlock felt warm, entirely too warm, but it felt too _good _to interrupt the sensation from enveloping him. He felt the heat explode across his skin as John's fervent lips crashed into his.

John's pressed his left hand into the couch behind Sherlock, resting his weight on it as he placed his right hand onto Sherlock's thigh, tracing slow, torturing circles with his fingertips. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, and pulled him closer. He snaked his hand up along the back of John's neck, grasping at the short tufts of hair as John's right hand moved closer to Sherlock's cock. His boxers were becoming strained as his member stiffened, filled with blood and heat and want.

Sherlock's other hand travelled up John's shirt, feeling and cataloguing the toned, flushed skin as he had desired to a mere few minutes ago. He traced his long fingers across John's rib cage and rubbed his right nipple, eliciting a moan from John as he nipped at Sherlock's already swollen, pink lips. Sherlock played with John's mouth, exploring it with his tongue as he recorded each movement and its gained reaction.

This type of physical interaction had held little significance to Sherlock in the past. When he had previously participated in such activities, it was nothing but wasted energy and time, and sweaty bodies. Flesh. Only useful documentation for future cases, involving motives and attachments, action and reaction. Dull. Boring. But this. Bold and sinfully carnal. Sherlock had never experienced flat out desire for anyone. Except for his John.

_His _John?

The thought struck Sherlock, breaking him from the heated kiss as confusion began to swell in his mind. John's mouth immediately reconnected with Sherlock's pale skin, biting down onto his exposed neck. With a moan, Sherlock's mind eased, the previous thoughts melting away. That was new, as well; John seemed to hold the power to dissolve his structured thought processes into a mere puddle. It was beyond him. Actually, it rather bothered him.

Sherlock's mind slipped once more as John's fingertips traced patterns near the base of his cock. His eyelids fluttered, hips arched up, fingers dug into John's smooth skin, cock swelling even further as he nearly cried out for John to touch him.

"John, please," Sherlock stuttered, breathing heavily. He tried to turn his face so that he could read John's expression, but as he did so, John palmed Sherlock's erection through his boxers, causing heat to explode inside him.

"_Oh_," Sherlock gasped as he arched his back, inhaling sharply at the contact. No, he had never felt this before.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John moaned, running his hand slowly down the length of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock's body convulsed at the sound of John's breathy moan in his ear. He tilted his head so that his nose hooked where John's jaw met his neck, sucking and nipping softly as John continued to rub his erection. Sherlock pulled John down onto him until his legs straddled either side of Sherlock's panting frame. The closeness and heat made him feel dizzy.

Suddenly, John had his hand around Sherlock's member and was stroking in earnest. Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea how he had managed it, with the material of his boxers being so taut, but he threw his head back at the sensation.

"_John_," he moaned loudly, causing John's breath to hitch in his throat. He moaned again, imagining what it would feel like with the barrier of clothing gone, nothing but their hot, flushed bodies writhing against each other. Sherlock picked his head back up to look into John's eyes, and he felt his heart leap in his chest. Through the haze of lust and desire, there was a deep, burning affection. Not hidden, but bold and open. As John brought Sherlock closer to the edge, his lips parted with thick panting, Sherlock started to lose control. He felt his mind slipping into oblivion, the machine completely stopping. A shock of realization and fear resonated through his body as he grabbed John's hand in order to stop him.

"No, John," he said, louder than intended. A look of confusion and hurt flashed across John's face, but Sherlock shook his head as he rubbed the back of John's neck. "I'm...not ready," he breathed out. Understanding began to fill John's features, his face and body relaxing as he twisted himself off of Sherlock's still panting frame.

In honesty, Sherlock wasn't ready. It was a rare moment when he was afraid of what his actions would usher in. Several variables to consider. He wasn't prepared for the entire loss of control over his mind and body. John understood that, Sherlock observed as he stared at his...friend? He glanced down to see John's own throbbing erection through his boxers. Sherlock felt a new wave of arousal rush through him as he reached over to assist John, but he declined with slight smile on his face. John, ever loyal, would not be swayed by physical desire until they were both ready.

"I'm going to...take a shower," John whispered, his breath still labored. Sherlock nodded, suppressing a giggle.

A _giggle_?

John padded off into the bathroom and closed the door. Sherlock, watching his bum the entire way, knew the exact events that would transpire under the steamed water. The thought of John, wet and wanking away at the thought of him, sent another jolt through his cock. He sighed as he reached into his own boxers, concluding business before he decided to actually finish making the tea he'd abandoned in the kitchen.


	8. IMPORTANT NOTICE AN

_**IMPORTANT NOTICE**_

There are people that I know who have had their explicit stories completely deleted from this site, so I want to let you all know that I will NOT be updating this story any longer ON HERE.

HOWEVER, that does not mean I am abandoning this story! (I could never)

Since I cannot post links on here, **follow these instructions to further read this story**:

- go to Google

- search "archive of our own Asgardian_Pirate" (without quotes). Asgardian_Pirate is my username on that site. You can find this updated story on the list of my works.

- you can comment and give kudos as guests, so please do! I really appreciate you reviewing and reading my story, so please don't stop the feedback. It encourages me!

I also have a couple of stories on that site that I have not posted on here, so there you go. More goodies for you (depending on your fandoms).

I love you all! Happy reading! :-)


End file.
